Return to Staszow

A week after my first journey to Staszow, Kristine and Monika and I arrived at the New Jewish Cemetery at 10:00AM and I got right to work with the contractor, Mr. Dryjak and his son, reviewing the work that needed to be done. Two memorials had been misplaced by another contractor, and we needed to have things put right. The first marker is for two unidentified Jews, whose skeletons were found at the house that had been occupied by the former Gestapo commander in Staszow, the same place where the vast majority of the headstones had been found several years ago. It turns out that the house is now owned by a teacher, who proved to be quite a prick about turning over the headstones. From what I can gather, my cousin Jack ended paying him a considerable amount of money to have them liberated.

A burial ceremony had been conducted about two years ago for the two and, somehow, the headstone had been put on the wrong spot. The other marker was for a mass grave of over two hundred Jews who had been shot in Staszow or along the road, the day that the inhabitants of the ghetto were forced to march on their way to Belzec and Treblinka on November 8, 1942. It seems likely that my great-grandfather, who was quite elderly at the time, was one of those put to death by the Nazis and may be buried here. This memorial had also been put in the wrong place.

After our work at the cemetery we went to the Staszow town museum, a tiny couple of rooms on the first floor of a concrete apartment building. The part-time director of the museum gave us a tour. Most impressive was the collection of Jewish artifacts, many of them donated by Cousin Jack. The most amazing story was behind the Torah stored in a plain glass and wood display cabinet. When the synagogue had been set ablaze by the Nazis, a seven-year old gentile boy ran in and retrieved the scrolls. The boy grew to be a man, an important musical composer and conductor. I believe his name is Robert Pana. Among his professional accomplishments were the organization of the military orchestras for Cuba and Nicaragua. He has been recognized by Yad Vashem as a hero and this certificate stands next to the Torah, which he donated some ten years ago. How is it that a a little boy, a non-Jew, would know the importance of this object and risk his own life to rescue them from the flames? There must be an interesting story here.

After a quick cup of tea and a bowl of soup in the restaurant in the old town hall, we went to the high school. We were escorted in by one of the three teachers I had met last week, Dorota. The school was fairly new and absolutely shined. We entered the classroom of Tomek, the senior of the three. The students sprang to their feet and began applauding. Two groups of three approached Kristine and Monika with elaborate bouquets. Then, in succession, the national anthems of America, Israel and Poland were played while everyone stood in respectful silence. Tomek’s intense gaze was focused on a distant place while the music played. These Poles really know how to do ceremony.

We were bid to take our seats and Tomek read a lengthy passage from the Talmud. His delivery was dramatic, nearly breathtaking. The students sat in rapt silence. He talked about how the souls of those who have passed must be remembered and how what troubled them in life will trouble them in death if things are not made right. I asked for a minute or two to say the following, through Monika, while Kristine joined me at the head of the class:

I am going to speak English to you, because I know that all of you speak perfect English. (laughter from the crowd) Thank you for welcoming us to your home, Staszow. This was the home of my grandparents and their parents for many hundreds of years, probably back to the 16th century.

Some of my ancestors left this place of their own choice and moved to America, where I now live. Others, including my great-grandfather, Shulem Schachna Weksler, were dragged out of their homes by the Nazis and murdered in November 1942.

I honor the wonderful work that you and your teachers, Tomek, Dorota and Katya, are doing in commemorating not only the death, but also the lives, of the vibrant Jewish community that existed in Staszow. From the distance of many years, it may appear that the world of the Jews and non-Jews were quite separate. But, as your esteemed teachers have taught you, there was a great inter-connectedness between these people. They all called Staszow home.

So, when you honor the memory of my grandfathers and my grandmothers, you are also honoring the memory of your ancestors. In the words of the great rabbi, Baal Shem Tov, “Forgetting is exile; Remembering is redemption”.

Thank you very much. Dziekuje bardzo.


We were then invited to view a draft of the presentation that the students had been working on for over a year. Utilizing presentation software that incorporated a fairly sophisticated virtual reality component they have recreated the town of Staszow as it appeared in 1942 down to the barbed-wire topped ghetto wall. Narrated by a deeply sonorous voice, the story was told of how the Jews were rounded up at the town square with only three hours’ notice and began the march to their deaths. With Barber’s Adagio for Strings in the background, it was hard to hold back the tears.

They reviewed the other sections of the presentation which, among other things, included links to details about Treblinka and a list of Staszow’s Holocaust victims. Darak, the young man who was running the program, scrolled down the list of names until he arrived at the name of my great-grandfather and his family. I tried to hold back my tears, but could not. My sobs filled the classroom. My cup runneth over.

They still had a fair bit to do, but above all they wanted to know if they were on the right track. Kristine and I both assured them emphatically that they were. As I went back to my seat, Tomek seized my hand, looked hard into my eyes and said, “I am very happy. Very happy that you are here.”

Even though the bell rang, the kids now crowded around the single computer screen to see bits and pieces of the presentation. We all applauded each other and then they were gone. We found their respectful deportment quite amazing. I may be wrong, but if this class was in America, I would expect a considerably more raucous atmosphere.

Now that the school day was over, the six of us piled into two cars and went to Szydlow. This was the first place where Jews settled in this district, in 1470. The synagogue had been built in the following century. It is a bit smaller than that in Tykocin. The lobby has a nice collection of Jewish artifacts, though it was not clear where they came from. The interior is stripped of any ornamentation, though our guides told us that there were partial frescoes beneath the white walls, most likely prayers such as I had seen in Tykocin. An immense sculpture of Moses stands where the bimah had once been the central architectural detail of the building. There was an exhibition of art from local artists with the synagogue being a common theme. And, because Poland is a complex and, often, contradictory place, there were also a few crucifixion scenes.

We went a short distance back towards Staszow and had coffee and pastry on the grounds of the palace that Monika and I had toured a week earlier. The teachers reviewed all the planned activities for the November 8 commemoration, which will include the multi-media show, a walk to and speeches at the cemetery and traditional Jewish cuisine. Dorota and Katya had attended a workshop a while ago in Krakow during the annual klezmer festival and have the intention of sharing this important part of Jewish culture with the attendees. They laughed heartily when I informed them that the basic gist of most Jewish holidays was – “We are the Jews. They hated us. They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat!” They implored us to come back for the occasion and to provide them with contact information for everybody we could think of. As it turned out, the commemoration went quite well and was attended by local dignitaries, church officials and a representative from the Israeli Embassy in Warsaw.

As we parted company, Tomek embraced me warmly and said, “That you are here is a miracle for us. I am very happy. Thank you.” Again, the tears flowed for all of us as we exchanged warm hugs and many kisses, much to the amazement of the occupants of a tour bus that had just pulled into the parking lot.

From the palace we raced to Ana and Leokadia's home where we had promised to be by 3:00PM. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into their driveway. This was the return visit that Ana had commanded and I was concerned that we were late. My worry was banished by Ana’s broad smile and effusive kissing. She beckoned us into the house where we were led to see the saver-of-Jews, Leokadia Kewalec. When Kristine bent over to kiss her, Leokadia held Kristine’s face in her hands and began crying, saying how beautiful Kristine was.

As before, we were ushered into their living/dining room and ordered to sit at the table, where we were immediately served from a tureen, enormous bowls of the second best mushroom soup of my life, the first being that of Grandma Levit. Then came bowls of a combination beet-mushroom consommé with a crepe-like pancake folded around sliced ham and melted cheese. Owing to her vegetarianism, Kristine had to deconstruct the crepe a bit. Two types of cake followed with copious glasses of hot tea. Various members would come and go and eat parts of the meal with us, all the while four-year old Kuba was running around making us all laugh.

I told Ana that I had fulfilled her two commands: 1) That I bring Kristine and 2) that I tell Jack about the three teachers and my confidence in them. She said that’s fine, and now she had a third, which is for me to help arrange for her a visit to the Jewish community while she is in Chicago. Amazingly, her son, Norbert, who lives in Chicago called while we were there and Ana told him that he needed to respond to my earlier email that set the stage for our collaboration in assuring the success of his mother’s visit.

Finally, Leokadia, as during my solo visit, pulled out photos and certificates and medals and showed them to Kristine. All of this centering around the eight Jews she had helped to save and their descendants, whose very lives were a result of the courage of her family.

It was getting late in the day and I was concerned about Monika driving in the dark all the way back to Krakow, so we excused ourselves. As usual our exit was accompanied by much hugging and kissing, but we were finally able to make it out the door and into Monika’s Skoda. Exhausted by so much emotion we went to sleep quickly back at the hotel.

So, here I sit with half a year and a half a world away from this intense experience, which was one part of a longer trip through Eastern Europe that I took. I stood on the ground where my ancestors lived and died. I did not know what I would be doing when I embarked on my journey, but I knew I would do something. I am grateful that through my continuing work and contribution of my resources, I will be able to further the restoration and preservation of the cemetery in Staszow. I am holding the intention to instigate a similar process in Sidra, Poland where my father’s mother’s family lived. The work on my book continues. But, perhaps, most importantly I have formed connections and relationships with people who care about the lives of my forefathers and, through their commitment, are raising the awareness of the next generation that the life of the Jews in Poland must not be forgotten.

Comments

[leila zevri]

how far is Staszow from Warsaw and how you can accede? I must know, I will came in Poland from Romania

[Annabelle Jacobs]

You mentioned that the gravemarker for the mass grave was in the wrong place. How do you know that? Are you familiar with the work of Jack Goldfarb? I thoroughly enjoyed your writing. You are so right. The Jews of (old) Poland must not be forgotten. annabelle J. Oh, by the way, my mom, Ruth Boguchwal was born in the Jewish hospital in Stashu in 1919. The Yad Vashem Yiskor Book for Stashu credits her Uncle Mendell as the only Boguchwal accounted for. His daughter Francis (Faigl) escaped to the woods on deportation day but her brothers, sister and an infant in her arms and parents were shot before the deportation started. They must be buried in the mass grave. I'm grateful you shared your story that I could talk a little!

[danny sasson]

hi
my family is also from Staszow

i was there and met laokdia 4 years ago -

i would like to have contact with you
my mail is dannysasson@gmail.com

i am looking for a way to make some memory from the Staszow jows.

[annabelle jacobs]

It doesn't matter how many times I read your words, I well up with tears. I was glad to hear about Ana G. coming to Chicago to visit her son Norbert...a most cordial person.